Hide and Seek
by Soulbell
Summary: Alfred's trapped within Anya's home in a torturous game of Hide and Seek. He may have taken one too many hits from a shovel... and could lose his mind in the process. Possible Fem!Rus/Ame.
1. Chapter 1

**One**

Alfred raced around the corner, slumping against the wall. He was out of breath and in pain; a couple of his ribs fractured. He grasped his bad half for support, shooting a spasm of pain up his side. All his senses were on edge, and he could hear and feel the blood pounding in his ears. Suddenly, his ears pricked, hearing the distinct sound of steel on marble.

"Come on, Capitalist~" a sweet voice called from down the long hall, "you can't hide from me~"

Alfred hissed in aggravation, attempting to stand back up; to get away. The sound that highly resembled nails on a chalkboard grew steadily closer, before abruptly stopping. He held his breath, listening intently. Had she moved down another hall? Or was she just carrying the shovel now? He risked sneaking a peek, sighing in relief as he looked on at an empty hallway.

That had only been a false sense of security, however. He turned back, nearly jumping out of his skin as he came face-to-face with her.

Face-to-face with Anya Braginski.

Or, rather, face-to-shovel. After all, not but two seconds after seeing her had she smashed it against his jawbone. Alfred fell to the floor, clutching pathetically at his jaw. Shit, it was broken. Anya towered over him, smiling and using the shovel to tilt his face up to look at her. Her strange violet eyes shimmered.

"I found you, darling~"

He groaned, glaring weakly up at her. Alfred couldn't believe he'd let himself get caught in her game. He shakily sat up, backing up against the wall. He sputtered out some blood, trembling. Anya squatted across from him, giggling. Her gaze was soft, her voice silky and full of contempt.

"That's _twice_ I've found you, Capitalist~" she began, traces of bitter disappointment coating her tone, "one more time and it's game over~"

She held out her hand for him to take, smiling affectionately. Alfred's glare softened, and he reluctantly took her hand. She pulled him to a standing position, her childish demeanor emanating from her.

"Now, darling, I'm going to count again…" she murmured, lightly stroking the good, unhurt side of his face, "…and you're going to _hide_ again~"

Alfred gulped, nodding slowly. What else could he do? There was no way out of this death trap called the Russian household, and if he could somehow manage to win this unfair, one-sided game, he could walk free again. But there was something else. He knew, somewhere in that sadistic mind of hers, that Anya just wanted a friend; someone to play with.

Even though it was becoming quite obvious as to why she couldn't hold onto any friends for too long.

He watched her skip down the hall, shovel in hand, before stumbling a bit further away, the pain washing over him like a wave at the beach. Alfred listened carefully as she counted, keeping a hand on the wall as he quickened his pace. Not but five minutes passed before he heard her sing the words that would seal his fate.

_ "Game, start~!"_

The words echoed heavily off the many walls of the home, sending chills down the blonde American's spine. He moved a little faster down the hallway, ignoring the agonizing pain in his ribs and the numbness in his jaw. He could hear the light pitter-patter of her feet hopping up the stairs one at a time. His head was pounding, and the pain surging through his body was affecting his vision, which was beginning to blur around the edges. He turned another corner, coming into another hall. It was as long and empty as the last. Alfred cursed to himself under his breath, beginning to believe he was going idly in circles.

Then, a flicker of movement caught his eye. He squinted, trying to see what was at the opposite end of the hall. At first, he yelped, seeing Anya peeking out from around the corner, but his fear quickly turned to confusion as she shrank back, hiding. Alfred cleaned his glasses off before trying to get a better look at the girl. He inched towards her, noticing she looked a lot younger than… Well, the Anya of today. She even looked frightened; an emotion almost never seen with Anya.

Momentarily, he felt like Arthur; was this chick for real? He called her by Anya's name, and she slowly came out from around the corner. Before he could question what was going on, he heard her. The familiar sound of steel shovel on marble reached his ears and he turned to see the real Anya standing statuesquely at the other end of the corridor.

"Aw… how disappointing~" she whined, "I was hoping you'd get farther~!"

He turned back to little Anya, but she'd vanished. He shakily stood tall, glaring.

"Why don't _I_ take a turn with the shovel… and _you_ hide?" he snarled, clearly upset.

"That's not how the game works~"

She began pacing down the hall towards him, shovel resting on her shoulder. Alfred made a break for around the corner, not even acknowledging the pains in his upper body. Another hallway lay before him, and he could hear Anya quickly closing in. He looked around frantically for somewhere to hide, spotting little Anya again. Her expression was panicked, and she was motioning for him to follow her as she turned another corner of the house.

Alfred raced after her, going through many doors and halls he probably wouldn't have originally noticed. He slipped down three flights of stairs, and stopped at the door little Anya had stopped in front of. She was staring intensely at it, and he noticed the lock slowly turning. He could faintly hear Anya moving down the first two staircases, and he started growing antsy, trying as hard as he could to keep quiet. The lock finally clicked, and Alfred yanked the door open, sliding in behind little Anya.

"Alfred, darling~" he heard Anya sing, "I know you're here somewhere, Capitalist~"

Alfred didn't stick around to let her see him. He slammed the thick door shut, locking it. The rich black of darkness quickly overtook everything around him.

Including himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

Alfred couldn't see anything, and no sound was heard throughout the room. He could feel he was on a set of wooden stairs, and he saw a glimmer of light from the edge of the stairwell. He stayed completely and utterly still, hearing Anya right outside the door.

Anya was looking around, blinking innocently. Alfred couldn't have gotten far. She looked at the door to the basement, staring emptily at it. Alfred gulped, a bead of sweat trickling down his face. She continued to stare at the door, lost in thought.

_ It's forbidden. Locked, forever._

She grabbed the doorknob, but found the door to be locked; as it should be. She sighed, knowing he couldn't have been in there. Anya turned on her heel, dragging her shovel against the marble floor.

Alfred heard her go, the sound of her shovel growing fainter and fainter. He sighed shakily in relief, slumping down onto the wooden steps. The dim light at the bottom of the steps flickered, and little Anya was there, back turned to Alfred. He blinked, slowly getting up and cautiously making his way down the steps toward her. He tried to keep quiet, as not to startle her, but his hopes plummeted as one of the stairs creaked loudly. Little Anya jerked her head around, her eyes wild with panic, before disappearing into nothingness.

He groaned in bitter disappointment, rubbing his temples. His head hurt. What the hell was going on? Was little Anya really there or just a figment of his imagination? As soon as he stepped off the steps and onto the cold stone floor, the small dash of light from the light bulb had gone dead. The room was cold and had an eerie presence about it. Alfred gulped, on edge, scarcely able to see. Even with the one window in the room with moonlight filtering through, the room was a bare strain of outlines, shrouded in darkness. He began feeling around blindly for a light switch, surprised he wasn't tripping over anything. The walls felt cool and rustic under his hand, peeling slightly. Some patches of wall were rougher than others, but he couldn't find a switch.

A tap came from the window, making Alfred jump. He turned, looking out the small window, but saw nothing. Suddenly, a breath appeared on the glass, like one would see in winter, when breathing hot air onto a window or glass door. He stared, writing beginning to appear. He squinted, trying to make out the writing as the breath began to fade.

_Don't turn on the light._

Alfred's expression became panicked, and he backed up against the opposite wall, eyes transfixed on the window as more writing began to appear.

_Don't let her catch you._

He was trembling slightly. What was happening to him? He couldn't be losing his mind. He wouldn't let Russia win. He wouldn't let her inside his head. He refused. Where was that light switch? He began feeling around a bit more frantically, finally feeling a switch. He flipped it, illuminating the room. He gasped, eyes widening in horror.

The rustic feeling wasn't just rust; it was blood splatters. The blood stains were set in the walls, as if they'd been there for many, many years. There were a couple chairs on the opposite end of the room, both of them knocked over and covered in dust. The room seemed to drop a couple degrees in temperature, and Alfred whipped his head around at the scratching noise behind him. Words were being carved into one of the larger blood splotches on the wall. The sound resembled a piece of sharp metal on concrete, and it was sickening. He watched the words as they slowly stood out and formed a complete sentence.

_I thought I warned you not to turn on the light._

Alfred resisted the powerful urge to shout, his insides running ice cold. He was shaking violently, frightened beyond his wits. He turned towards the stairs, but stopped, seeing little Anya. She was glaring at him, her eyes empty of emotion and her expression blank. The frightened look on her face was nowhere in sight, not by a long shot. Alfred turned back to attempt breaking the window, but knew it was too small a fit. He was stuck, confined even further than he'd been before hiding out here. Little Anya slowly moved toward him, grabbing his hand.

As soon as they made contact, the walls were cleaned. They even looked brand new, as if they hadn't been touched. The chairs were set up straight, side by side. Alfred was confused as could be. He knew he was losing his mind now, but still refused to admit it. Little Anya was watching the scene contently, a sadness in her empty violet eyes. She still held Alfred's hand in hers, and he thought it best to follow her lead… and watch.

The door to the basement opened, and he resisted the urge to see if it was Anya. He saw a family come around, the mother and father sitting in the chairs. They had four daughters, it seemed, and one son, who sat on the father's lap. Who were these people? He looked down at little Anya, but something in his mind was nagging at him to watch the rest of the scene unfurl. The four girls were talking quietly amongst themselves, one of them seemingly very familiar, as if Alfred had seen her somewhere before.

And then Anya walked in.

She looked a little younger than Anya did now, and a bit older than little Anya. Alfred tensed, but she looked right past him, as if he weren't there. That's when he began to figure it out. This was nothing but a flashback. A time slip. He was still unsure as to what was going on, but the familiar-looking girl ran up to Anya and hugged her around the waist, speaking in Russian. She seemed happy, but Anya's response was melancholy, a light coat of anguish covering her tone. The girl blinked, her smile vanishing. She rejoined her sisters, looking at the ground. Anya's back was to the family now, and the room was awkwardly silent. Alfred gulped, the silence making him nervous. Then Anya muttered two words that he recognized.

_"Da svedanya."_

The last thing Alfred heard were gunshots and screams, and the last thing he saw were the bodies of the family falling to the ground, every last one. The chairs fell over; landing in the exact same position they'd been in when he'd first seen them in the room currently. The scenery changed, gunshots still blaring and screams still ringing in his ears. He was outside the Tsar's palace, he realized, a crowd of people scattering madly and erratically about through the snow. Some of them fell to the ground, and he heard little Anya whisper in a tiny, childlike voice a simple pair of words.

"Bloody Sunday~"

Alfred looked down at her, his eyes pleading. But little Anya continued to stare, unmoving, standing as if she were a stone statue. The environment changed again, showing flashes of what Alfred knew as the Great Purge. The events were out of order, changing sporadically, but the effect was still the same. Finally, the scenery changed to a more recent event. Alfred could tell, because it was only a couple decades ago that this took place.

He would know. He had caused it.

Anya was looking on at her fellow countries of the formerly known Soviet Union. All of them-every last one-was leaving her. He never knew she'd watched them all go singularly. She stood on her home territory, alone in the snow, watching as every last one of them left, making their way back home. Alfred could only stare at her as she sat down in the snow, eyes on the ground. The expression in her face was painful to look at it; the loneliness sticking out like a sore thumb. He didn't know it had hurt her that bad. And even though what was done was done and Alfred would _never_ take it back, he felt a bit… ashamed.

Little Anya finally let go of Alfred's hand and the room returned to normal. His eyes slowly adjusted to the usual light, and the usual scenery. The words on the wall were gone, as well as the words on the window and little Anya herself. Alfred took a couple deep breaths, trying to calm himself and keep steady, the pain in his torso and jaw making him feel numb. He looked toward the staircase, making his way towards it quickly. He turned out the light, heading up the stairs.

He was sure Anya was tired of looking for him by now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

Alfred stepped out of the basement's dim and creepy atmosphere and back into the brightly lit foyer at the bottom of the three sets of spiral stairs. Across from him lay the entrance and exit to the Russian household; but he knew it was still locked. He sighed, yelping suddenly as little Anya appeared next to him. She turned to look at him, whispering simply.

"Don't let her catch you."

He furrowed his brows, confused. He winced slightly as little Anya suddenly appeared near the door. She smiled faintly at him, her outline beginning to fade.

"You have to catch her first; help her~"

Alfred gulped. Little Anya spoke with the same confident and powerful tone as Anya usually did. He watched as she began moving slowly up the steps before turning back, grinning at him with childish innocence.

"That's how you win~"

She vanished, but another set of words were murmured in his ear.

_"Tell her where you were hiding~"_

Determined, Alfred shakily exhaled before making his way up the steps, shouting the one word that would bring her.

_"ANYA!"_

The words echoed horribly off the walls, and the house was silent for a few minutes. Little Anya was nowhere in sight, and out the large window overhead, Alfred could see the beginnings of a sunrise. He'd been here all night. He whipped his head around as he heard the noise he'd been waiting for; steel on marble.

The noise was quickened though, as if Anya was running towards him. He was on the second set of stairs when he saw her at the top of the stairwell. She smiled at him, laughing. She leaped down the steps two at a time before attempting to slam her shovel down over his head. Alfred was prepared, however, and caught it swiftly between his hands. He grit his teeth, using all his strength to keep the shovel from touching him. Anya gasped slightly, surprised by the sudden burst of energy he was producing.

"Anya, I lasted! You couldn't find me!" He growled dangerously, managing to push her off. His ribs pulsated with pain in response, but he refused to show any weakness here.

She sat across from him, pouting slightly. They were still on the stairs, and Alfred was beginning to regret that decision. One fall could break either one of their necks. Anya was trembling ever so slightly, astounded by the fact that she may have lost her own game.

"…Where? Where did you hide?" she mumbled, purely curious. She'd searched the whole house, and she knew that he couldn't have continuously outrun her, not with the stress that would put on his ribs.

Silence greeted her question for a bit, for Alfred was debating whether or not to follow little Anya's advice and answer her. He looked up at her, his expression purely serious.

"The baseme—"

She tackled him, both of them rolling down the steps, hissing and spitting much like cats. Anya's calm, friendly and confident expression was gone, replaced by rage and disbelief.

_ "HOW? HOW DID YOU GET DOWN THERE?"_ she screeched, attempting to grab Alfred's neck.

He held her off of him, elbowing her across the face, ultimately pushing her off of him. He noticed she was shaking violently now, and she avoided looking at him.

"How I got down there doesn't matter, Anya. I understand now that you've been through a lot. You need to let go, Anya, before it completely takes over you."

She looked up at him, her face full of hurt and her eyes wild with fear. Alfred had never seen her like this; she looked as if she were about to cry.

"You think you _know how I feel?_" she asked incredulously, "You don't know _ANYTHING_, ALFRED! YOU DON'T HAVE TO HEAR THE SCREAMS OF THOSE INNOCENT PEOPLE EVERY DAY! YOU DON'T HAVE TO SEE THE LOOK ON ANASTASIA'S FACE EVERY TIME YOU PASS A PICTURE OF HER!"

She held her face in her hands, her whole outer persona breaking down all at that one moment. She couldn't choke back the sobs, and she dropped her shovel, leaning against the wall.

"You don't… you don't have to look at old photos… and wonder what people are missing from the picture…" she muttered, sniffling. Shaking her head, rays of sunlight poured through the overhead window, reflecting off of both of them. It was morning.

"I… I may not understand exactly where you're coming from, Anya, you're right. But you need to let it go. You can't keep beating yourself up for the past. That much I _do_ know." Alfred stated boldly, tilting her face up to look at him.

She stared at him for a bit, thinking hard, the drying tears stinging her face. Finally, she pulled away, shakily sanding up. She pulled Alfred up with her, and slipped a hand in her pocket, pulling out a key. Her shovel still lay on the ground, but she didn't notice. She put the key in the lock in the front door, turning it slowly. She dry-swallowed, opening the door and letting flaming rays of light into the home. It felt nice against her skin, as well as Alfred's. He'd been in the cold basement all night, for God's sake.

"Get out." she mumbled sadly, "You can go."

She stood at the door, looking out into the sunrise. Alfred stared in disbelief. He'd won. He'd actually won this game they'd played. And even though he had… he felt like it was unfinished. Hesitantly, he came up closely behind her, pushing the door shut and gently slipping the key out of her fingers. She turned to look at him, a puzzled expression on her face. Even Alfred was unsure of what he was doing, but he smiled softly, pulling her close.

"Let's talk."

Anya turned slightly pink, before leaning into the hug, crying again. She never thought, in all her years, that Alfred would be the one to stay and talk to her. Never. As they headed up the stairs, chatting quietly and laughing with each other, little Anya appeared at the foot of the steps. Neither one of them noticed her, but she saw them. She smiled softly at the sight of them, before vanishing. A small giggle echoed softly off the walls as the sun lit up the entirety of the Russian household.


End file.
